


Turbulence

by OneBigWaywardFamily



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Touches, Blushing, Comforting, Destiel - Freeform, Destiel Flirting, Destiel Fluff, Fear of Flying, Ficlet, First Meeting, Flirting, M/M, Prompt Fic, Scared!Dean, canon references, destiel ficlet, sO MUCH BLUSHING OH MY GOSH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:09:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5297699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneBigWaywardFamily/pseuds/OneBigWaywardFamily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has doesn't like flying. Well, he has more a fear- okay, fine, a phobia. He promised Sam he'd be at his graduation, but he doesn't think he can make it to the gate, let alone fly by himself. Not until he meets Castiel, a man who gives Dean more to think about than just plane crashes and sweaty palms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turbulence

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to apologize in advance for the gross cliche, but hey. These two nerds are about as cliche as it gets.  
> Enjoy!!

A voice finally crackled across the intercom. Short, static-ridden, nasally. Everything Dean expected Satan to sound like.

“ _Flight 618 is ready to board. Would all flight 618 passengers please make their way to the gate, flight 618-_ “ The rest was lost to the drum of Dean’s pulse in his ears. He gripped the handle of his suitcase, palms slick with sweat, and checked his watch. _8:32_ \- right on time.

He could do this. It was just a flight, right? Sammy’s graduation, had to make it to Sammy’s graduation. Just a _few_ hours.

A few hours in a plane.

A-a tin can, with wings.

Thousands of feet up, floating in the air-

He swallowed, swiping his hands down the front of his jacket. He could feel sweat soaking his shirt down to the second button. His mouth was dry; his stomach was lurching like a lassoed bull. A mint or two couldn’t have hurt him, either, at that point. He could feel his dignity just slinking away, mumbling, _Not with him, not with him_ -

“Man up, Winchester,” he grumbled. He fished around his pocket for his ticket, counting the ticks of his watch instead of the spots and swirls in his vision. The line of passengers pressed forward quickly, too quickly, and soon he was facing a thin-lipped attendant with blonde ringlets and unsympathetic eyes. She scanned his pass mechanically, like she was price-checking gum, not sentencing him to eternal panic. He could feel her gaze slide past the sheen of sweat on his face when she held the pass back out for him to take.

“So, uh-“ Dean forced a smile at the woman as he shoved the ticket back into his coat. “Are you guys expecting any turbulence, or-“ The attendant- her worn nametag said something along the lines of _Sarah_ \- gave him a blank look.

He tried to speak again, but his face didn’t seem to want to cooperate. He rubbed the corner of his eye with his thumb and opened his mouth to continue, but Sarah cut him off with a tight-lipped smile. Her gaze flicked over his shoulder, towards the other flyers shifting impatiently behind him, and she cleared her throat.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, sir.” She gestured past him to the crystal blue sky outside, nothing but a few wisps of snow-white clouds hanging above them. Dean’s stomach churned as his eyes tracked a takeoff at the edge of the runway. Sarah checked her own watch as he chewed the inside of his cheek, face burning in a nervous blush.

“Clear day.”

“Yeah,” he swallowed. He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck, and tugged his suitcase forward with a _click_. “Okay, I’ll just-“ Her hand was already behind him, taking a young couple’s tickets, so Dean stood there for a second or two, face hot and red, before shuffling down the hallway.

Could they make those damn things any _narrower_? Sam’s gangly arms could probably out-stretch the width of the damn floor. He counted his breaths- _in through the nose, out through the mouth, Dean_ ( _thanks Sam, I’ll call you when I land_ ) - and rolled to a stop behind some guy with dark hair and a too-small suit jacket.

“H-hey, buddy,” Dean stammered. The guy didn’t turn around. Must’ve been texting, maybe letting someone know he was boarding-

_About to board! Text you when I land, haha! I mean, if we land. It’s not like we’re going to burn in a fiery crash, right? Lol, love you, ttyl!_

“Yes?” The man’s voice brought Dean back to ground- the thin, cheaply-carpeted ground, and he shook his head. His eyes blurred into focus faster than his stomach could stand.  First, on blue, just _vivid_ blue, a few inches below his eyes. Then on steel-cut cheekbones, a pair of pink lips pressed into a line, and dark hair, the color of black coffee-

He blinked. _Hot. He was hot._

“Did you want something?” He was waiting with one brow quirked up and interest in the flecks of his blue, _stunningly_ blue eyes. Dean saw the man’s thumb hovering over his phone screen, and part of his stupid, adrenaline-soaked brain blurted, _nice hands_.

“I-“ For a second Dean forgot his question, about the flight and the turbulence and the metal bird he was about to hop, just focused on the face in front of him (nothing like a little southern sensory overload to boot the knots from your gut, right?).

But then he felt the rumble of the engine shake the floor, echo into the soles of his feet, and he was reminded with a harsh twist in his gut. “I was wondering if you know if there are any…” The man stood there, waiting, gaze flickering across Dean’s body fast enough to make him question whether or not he looked at all. Dean stuttered, “A-anything wrong with the plane?”

The man’s shoulders ( _broad_ shoulders, damn. No wonder his suit was too small-) softened. He locked his phone, tucking it into his back pocket, and fixed Dean with a kind look; Dean felt pinned under the weight of it. “Are you afraid of flying?”

Dean’s stomach gave another lurch. He tried to laugh back, play off the whole _save me from this death trap_ vibe, but it came out strained, like he had a chunk of something stuck in his throat. “What gave it away?”

“Well it definitely wasn’t the perspiration on your face, if that’s what you’re asking.” The man tucked his briefcase under his arm, and Dean watched in awe as he stuck his hand out. To shake? Did he want to shake hands?

“Castiel,” the man introduced. Dean couldn’t _see_ a smile, but he was there. Kind of implied, just beyond his lips. Dean dragged his palm along his pant leg and shook the man’s- _Castiel’s_ \- hand with an awkward smile of his own. Something in his chest came loose when they met eyes.

“Dean Winchester.”

“A pleasure,” Castiel replied. He turned back with a small smile playing in the corner of his mouth, and Dean smiled, too, until realizing he was standing, staring at the guy without anything to say. He stood there for a few seconds, shifting on his feet, not really knowing what to say- only knowing that the longer he talked, the better he felt. “Uh-“ he wrung his hands in his shirt. “You, you flying away or home, or-?”

Castiel shifted back towards him, fully towards him this time, and Dean relaxed as Castiel answered, “Away.”

Dean nodded, ducking his head. “Me, uh- me, too.”

“Why is that?”

“Graduation.” And then, seeing Castiel’s face pinch in confusion, Dean stammered to correct himself. “Not _mine_ , no, it’s uh- my brother’s graduation.”

Castiel nodded, a soft light filling his eyes, and Dean chuckled, more in surprise than humor (warmth spread like sunlight through his chest the longer Castiel held his gaze). “Nerd’s coming home from Stanford.”

Cas chuckled, asking, “By _nerd_ you mean…?”

“Genius,” Dean boasted. “The kid’s a _genius_. Full ride, straight As, the whole nine.”

By now they were steps away from the front of the plane- that awkward little corner with a few suitcases and an employee decked in construction-orange. Dean swallowed, looking past the people in line to the cramped space inside _. Hours in there_ …

“Well-“ Dean turned back at the sound of Castiel’s voice. He was smiling still, that ghost of a smile of his, scanning Dean’s face with an open sincerity that tied different, looser knots in Dean’s stomach. “I hope it all goes well.”

Castiel checked the time, adding, “That is, if we make it.”

For a second, Dean thought he was being serious, and his stomach rolled in a shock of fear. _So we_ are _gonna’ die_ -

But then he looked, and Castiel was grinning. The asshole actually thought it was _funny_. Dean huffed, half-serious, half-just-wanting-to-see-Castiel-laugh-again, and turned away, messing with the pockets of his suit case.

“Hey, hey-“ Castiel laughed. Dean stayed still, listening to Castiel stammer behind him, until he felt a hand on his arm. “Hey.”

Dean felt sparks light up at the touch ( _did Castiel notice them as well?_ ), and it made his chest pinch. “I promise you, we’ll be perfectly safe.” Castiel squeezed his arm, maybe just for good measure (maybe for something else), and offered him his apparently trademark, oddly soothing smile. “Alright?”

Dean wanted to nod back, automatically blurt back alright, because whoever this guy  was, what he was doing, it was untangling the mess in his gut faster than Dean’s dumb “positive thoughts”. But he reigned himself in, sighing dramatically, and met Castiel’s eyes with one corner of his mouth ticked up. “Okay.”

The clump of passengers finally pressed into the tiny space between classes, and Castiel made a move to step away to find his seat, turning towards the curtain. Dean’s heart stammered in surprise, because he remembered where they were. He wasn’t here to talk to Castiel (or see if he could feel that syrupy warmth, too). They couldn’t split yet, they- they’d barely learned each other’s names.

What if there was a gas leak? Flat tire? (Couldn’t hurt to get his number, too-) Castiel had yet to answer whether there was anything _wrong_ with their flight, and Dean wasn’t gonna’ let him go until-

“I’ll see you at the end of the flight, then,” Castiel smiled. Dean’s hand twitched. He wanted to reach up, grab Cas’- _Castiel’s_ , dammit- _his_ arm, too. Something about him was gentle and calming, undoing the fear in his chest.  Maybe it was the put-together-ness, the suit, the way his razor-edged features could turn so soft. Dean didn’t want to have the entire flight, alone, to think about why that was without at least knowing why the man was flying in the first place.

“Sir,” the attendant barked. Dean didn’t realize he had dazed off again till another passenger was struggling to push past him with two suitcases and a toddler. “Ticket, please.”

Castiel was already gone, disappeared into first class. Another knot wound itself into the pit of Dean’s stomach. He shoved his ticket into the man’s hand, ignoring the guidance from the attendant, and swept the thin curtain aside _(it was the color of Cas’-_ Castiel’s _eyes_ ).

First class was half-empty. It was a little stuffy and smelled like sandalwood, and the only passengers were balding men and a few older women in velvet track suits. Dean spotted Castiel, a few rows from the front, sifting through something on the floor with one headphone tucked into his ear. Dean automatically felt himself wondering what kind of music he liked. Rock? Pop? _Please_ , not country. He shuffled forward, heart beating a tattoo against his ribs.

He crumpled his ticket into a ball, swallowing. Lots of seats open. Couldn’t hurt if he took the one next to Castiel right? He shuffled forward, heart beating a tattoo against his ribs.

“H-“ Dean cleared his throat nervously. Castiel looked up from his briefcase, first with surprise, then interest. Kind of curious, kind of wary. _Poor guy probably thinks I’m a creeper_. “Hey. I think you’re in my seat?”

“Oh?” Castiel replied. He began to gather his things, standing up with his case in his arms, and chuckled. Dean tried to step past him, but two grown men can only get so far with the space between seats. Their thighs met, and Dean could feel his face flush bright red from the tips of his ears to the nape of his neck. _So he works out._

Dean dropped into his seat, rubbing his forehead but really hiding his face (his eyes were probably bulging out approximately four miles). He could feel the heat from his face burn his palms. _This was a bad idea._

“You probably just want to steal the window seat,” Cas laughed, tucking his things into the overhead compartment. He shoved the cabinet closed with a _click_. He made a move to sit, but he saw Dean- Dean, in all his pink-red, sweaty glory- and frowned, his eyes taking on a sort of fierce concern. Castiel settled his hand on Dean’s shoulder and asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Dean rasped. “It’s my, uh, my stomach.” _And your thighs, I guess. Unrelated question, are you by any chance a bodybuilder_?

“Do you need some water?” Cas asked softly, squeezing his shoulder. Dean nodded weakly. Castiel’s grip on his arm disappeared for a few seconds, replaced by a jumble of voices, but soon it was back, the seat next to him sinking under the man’s weight.

“Here,” Castiel offered. Dean came out from behind his hands and took the glass with a nod. The water was silty and metallic, but damn, at that point it tasted like Heaven. He gulped it down and crunched the empty paper cup in his hands, to Castiel’s not-so-subtle surprise. Dean began tearing it into small pieces before he could stop himself. The weight of everyone’s stares fell onto Dean’s shoulders, but Castiel sat beside him, gazing quietly and patting his back.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered. He glanced at Castiel, feeling a real warm, soft feeling spill into the space in the center of his chest as their eyes connected. He swallowed. “Better.”

-

It took a few minutes for Dean to calm down again, but eventually, with a few stories and bad jokes from Castiel (the guy’s sense of humor was dry and horrible but, damn, Dean hadn’t laughed that hard in ages), his stomach was no longer sucked up against his spine, his face wasn’t so cherry-red, and all of Castiel’s professional air was drained. He had his elbows on his knees, running his fingers through his hair, picking pretzels out of the peanuts bag the attendant had passed them ( _So he doesn’t like peanuts_ ).

“So,” Dean asked. He dumped the last of the paper cup shreds into his lap, picking wax off of his fingers. “I take it you fly often?”

“Yes,” Castiel chirped. He leaned back into his seat, eyes going to ceiling, and shook his head with a chuckle. Dean’s eyes gratefully traced his profile. Sharp nose, diamond-cut jaw, eyelashes long enough to cast shadows.

“It’s not always as fun as _today_ -“ Dean tucked his chin against his chest so Castiel couldn’t see his stupid, bashful smile. Castiel smiled again, head rolling sideways to scan Dean’s face. “But yes.”

“Am I allowed to ask why?” Dean asked.

Castiel raised an eyebrow curiously. “Am I allowed to stop you?”

“Who knows?” Dean gestured to Castiel’s suit- trim, black, hugging his back and shoulder and thighs. His tie was a little crooked, but with the whole resting half-scowl thing and the blindingly blue eyes, the guy could be an FBI agent. Dean jabbed his side with his elbow, waggling his eyebrows with a wicked grin that made even Cas duck his eyes. “Ask too many questions and I could get shipped off to the Bermuda Triangle.”

“I’m an insurance salesman, jackass,” Cas laughed.

“Hey,” Dean defended. He put his hands up, tilting his head back in defense. “If you’re a bird, I’m a bird, right?”

Cas rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He reached back, tugging at his sleeves, and shucked off the jacket in a few smooth movements. Dean’s gaze caught Castiel’s muscles, straining against the thin, white shirt, and he swallowed. Tight suit, tight shirt. (What else was tight?)

Castiel stuffed the suit jacket underneath him and spread his hands, smirking. “Am I still intimidating, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean scoffed- _choked_ really. He peeled his eyes away from Castiel’s biceps, folding a cocky smirk across his face. “Well-“ He licked his lips, hopefully covering some of that stupid look in his eyes with faux-disinterest. Castiel just waited, eyebrow quirked up, eyes warm and curious. “Maybe you could unbutton it?”

This _actually_ caught the guy off guard (like he didn’t hear that on a daily basis). Castiel stopped, and barely, just barely, a burst of pink dusted across his cheeks. (Dammit, it was adorable-) Dean grinned at the surprise in his face. “ _Dean_ -“

Before he could finish, the attendants were filing into the walkways between seats, smiling their fake smiles and pulling out seatbelt replicas. Dean swallowed as reality, cold reality, set it. Oh, yeah; he was flying. (Flying. Dying. Coincidence?)

“Attention-“ The pilot came over the intercom. Static was a shadow behind his voice as he began the standard-issue, Pilot-101 monologue. Still sounded like Satan.

Just like that, the knots were back in Dean’s stomach. His heart began to patter, then beat, then crash full-force against his chest as the attendant’s did the dog and pony show with the oxygen masks. They marked the exits, they buckled up (they better roll out that alcohol cart, or so help him-). All the laughter dried up in Dean’s throat, and suddenly, he was covered in cold sweat. By the end of the display, he was clutching the armrests with the jaws of life, his good, old friend fear making waves in his stomach.

 _One more thing, ladies and gentlemen_. He could hear the pilot mocking him in his head. _Make sure to kiss your sweet ass goodbye._

“Dean, you’re safe,” Castiel assured. His voice was muffled against the beat of Dean’s heart, but it _was_ there, fighting to crack the barrier of adrenaline and senseless fear burying his good intentions. “I’ve flown a hundred times, and there’s no reason to be afraid.”

Dean wanted to speak back, crack a joke, or even manage a nod, but if Castiel wanted a reaction, he’d have to peel him off the seat with a spatula, first. The engine rumbled, and the air hummed with the low, bass sound of the plane prepping to gallop. Dean felt its drone in the pit of his stomach.

Shit, there it was- nausea. He could feel the seeds of it in his stomach; he was gonna’ barf.

“C-Castiel,” Dean stammered. His fingers ached from digging into the armrests. “I, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Dean,” Cas cooed. “It’s going to be okay.” His hand found its way onto Dean’s back, rubbing soothing circles in the space between his shoulders. It helped, damn it helped instantly, but Dean could still feel the threat of vomit pushing against the lump of his throat. He needed more.

“Does that help?” Castiel whispered. Not really _whispered_ ; Dean couldn’t hear a whisper with the whirring of the engine. But it was the only thing he was focusing on at that point, and the low rumble of Castiel’s voice fit nicely to the growl of the engine. The plane’s wheels began to turn, and they pulled forward, down the endless runway of would-be-takeoffs and colored cones.

Dean fisted his hands in his shirt, gritting his teeth. He could feel them going faster and faster and _faster_. His head began spinning, everything around him tilting, everything but the places Castiel traced with his palm.

“’M ‘gnna get sick,” Dean moaned. He bowed his head between his legs, and even with the stupid breathing techniques Sam had taught him over the phone, he still felt that hollow, ghost-of-a-retch feeling itch in his throat. His heart was gonna crack through his sternum at the rate it was pounding.

“Dean, you have to calm down,” Castiel warned.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Dean promised. They were probably going to take off soon. Into- into the air- Dean felt the ground jolt beneath him, and he lashed out, latching onto Cas’ ( _Castiel’s?_ ) arm with shaking hands. He instinctively burrowed into the nape of his neck (he smelled like… like the beach. Sunny days and expensive, salesman cologne), clenching his jaw against the force of the engine. It was louder now; he could feel the bass of it in his teeth. But he kept a firm grip on Cas’ bicep, and instead of plastic and rough fabric, it was muscle. Solid, tan muscle.

(Dean couldn’t argue and say that didn’t make him feel a _tiny_ bit better.)

They were taking off now, he could feel it. The plane was bouncing on its wheels, like a toddler with a new toy, and each movement was like a fist in his gut. He could feel the sweat through the back of his shirt; his heartbeat was bleeding down to the tips of his fingers.

“Dean,” Castiel urged. Another bump, another anxious nose-up towards the sky. Dean’s stomach clambered up, into his throat, and it didn’t seem to want to stay put.

“Dean,” Castiel warned again. He shook his back, and Dean could sense the worry creeping into his voice, into the sweep of his hand. But he couldn’t find it in himself to focus; he was busy grounding himself in thoughts of Sammy in a cap and gown, his trademark dimples shining bright under a spotlight.

_I’d like to thank my family-_

Bump.

_My dad._

Bump.

_My mom._

Bump.

_My brother, Dean, who apparently couldn’t make it here this evening-_

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel barked. He reached down, gripping Dean’s knee with a hard squeeze, and pointed out the window. “ _Look_.”

 Dean snapped up, gasping for air, and blinked. There was a flash of white, a few spots of black swirling like leaves before him, and then-

He spun towards the window, feeling his breath catch in the back of his throat. They- they were up in the air. The ground was falling farther and farther away faster than he wanted. The blocky, brown, desert mountains tilted beneath him like a patch-work quilt, the clear blue sky kissing the horizon with rays of pure, white light. Blood rushed from his head in a dizzy spin of colors. Shit shit shit-

_So this was flying._

He waited a few seconds, steadying himself against his seat, watching the plane of land beneath him tilt. It was weird, unnatural- it made him want to barf, if he was being frank. So he continued to wait.

Nothing.

No jolting, no speed bumps, no fiery explosions…

He reluctantly relaxed. No turbulence. Now, it was just the quiet hum of the wind outside and the clank of the drink cart scooting down the aisle. That, and his heartbeat. It could probably be heard all the way down past Coach.

“Huh,” Dean breathed. The new silence was empty but warm. He relaxed one hand, re-flexing it into a fist, and winced. It ached at the joints, but suddenly, he felt a lightness in his stomach, lifting him up from beneath his lungs. It wasn’t necessarily _pleasant_ , maybe a little persistent in pushing up the nausea (hell, maybe he was gonna’ pass out), but he let it go unnoticed as the ground melted into sky.

Dean hacked a laugh; he felt the knots in his gut clench and unclench in relief. He spared another look out the window, sighing, and realized with a shock that one hand was still clenching Cas’ arm. That, and Cas’ hand was still resting lightly on his knee.

Castiel noticed it too. He smiled sheepishly, ducking beneath Dean’s gaze, and shrugged. “Better?”

“Well damn, Cas,” Dean said. He looked the man in his Pacific-blue eyes and grinned, smirking, “At least take me out to dinner first.”


End file.
